


Electromagnetism

by echoinautumn (maybetwice)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Shenanigans, Alien Technology, M/M, Masturbation, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-12
Updated: 2009-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-13 01:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/echoinautumn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>e·lec·tro·mag·net·ism (ĭ-lěk'trō-māg'nĭ-tĭz'əm) n. 1. the phenomena associated with electric and magnetic fields and their interactions with each other and with electric charges and currents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Electromagnetism

**Author's Note:**

> Response to [this prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/st_xi_kink/2494.html?thread=6059710#t6059710), again, from [](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[**st_xi_kink**](http://st-xi-kink.livejournal.com/). Special thanks to [](http://enfermeira-chan.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://enfermeira-chan.livejournal.com/)**enfermeira_chan** for the prompt :D

It wasn’t anything particularly earth-shattering to start with. In fact, no one had even _noticed_ what was going on until Chekov reached over the console for something Sulu was giving him and their hands brushed. The Enterprise’s power flickered as a bright spark burned the both of them and blasted both pilot and navigator in separate directions across the bridge. Spock helped a shaking Chekov to his feet while the Russian cradled his burned hand to his chest with a wide-eyed expression matched in surprise only by the one on Sulu’s face. Kirk had first suggested they try it again—that it was a violent buildup of static electricity from the console or something—but when Spock queried whether or not Kirk was inclined to replace the best navigator and pilot in the fleet, he relented and ordered the two to sickbay instead.

McCoy was as baffled by the phenomenon as anyone else was, muttering under his breath about space diseases and weird, alien voodoo as he prodded the both of them and attached conductors to them. When he was done, McCoy finally concluded that it was the apparent result of a ceremony they had recently taken part in which had some sort of residual bio-electrical magnetic effect that reacted violently to their touching. With an explanation about magnets with the same charge that was over-simplified for McCoy’s sake more than either Chekov or Sulu, and a half-hearted reassurance that it would pass in time, both lieutenant and ensign were dismissed to quarters for rest after their burns were treated.

It didn’t pass for the first week, or even the second, or third… and it was still a problem a month and a half later, when Chekov skidded to a stop during his run and stumbled over his own feet while trying to keep from barreling into Sulu. Then, he only brushed his smallest finger against Sulu’s, but the reaction was no less violent than the first. But they were close friends, and worked in situations that required them to be close, and so what might have encouraged anyone else to avoid the other was shoved to the side and accepted as a regular part of life.

It was two months into the ordeal, and it was getting older and older every day that they had to be careful not to touch, even when they needed to watch the other’s back during away missions. Chekov offered to switch to a different shift, a request which was promptly refused by Kirk mostly because Sulu had _also_ offered to do the same, and he didn’t particularly feel inclined to lose what he felt was _his_ bridge crew.

After a late shift and later meal, the pair walked wearily toward their quarters on opposing sides of the corridors and Sulu finally stopped suddenly. “Chekov?” He called quietly. Chekov stopped and turned to look at him, then hummed to indicate that he had heard his name. It had been a few long weeks since the idea had first occurred to him, that he and Chekov were good friends despite never being able to touch in any way. It also occurred to him that he had a very difficult time getting the Russian navigator out of his mind, which had an annoying tendency of warping things into what he didn’t want. Sulu took a half-shaky breath. “You want to go out sometime? On shore leave or something? I… I’m not sure what counts as a date when you’re on a five-year mission.”

Chekov looked pensive for a moment, then frowned with the wrinkle of his forehead Sulu didn’t know he thought was adorable until that moment. “You do not think it would be awkward for us?” He sounded confused, but Sulu didn’t _think_ that was a refusal.

This was the point at which Sulu might have hugged him or kissed him or _something_ , but the same issue Chekov had brought up was the one keeping him on his side of the corridor. Instead he shrugged and offered Chekov an awkward smile, hoping it covered the disappointment he had already known he would feel. “It was worth asking,” he told him and tilted his head in the direction they had been traveling before. “We should get back to quarters, then.”

Chekov followed along, catching up within a few strides, but stayed silent until they reached his quarters. It was then that he looked at the floor awkwardly and stopped Sulu with a clearing of his throat and a softer, “Hikaru?”

Being that it had been the first time Chekov had used his first name, Sulu stopped immediately and turned back toward him. “Pavel?” he echoed the use of his first name with a crooked smile. Off-duty, officers were welcome to use first names, but they had not, up until that point, made the leap from professionalism to casual references to one another.

“I would like to _go out_ sometime. If you still do not mind.” Chekov looked as though he had been thinking very hard about this for much longer than simply the few moments it had taken them to return to his quarters. Perhaps he had been.

Sulu grinned. “You got it.”

And so it was in that vein that things continued for the next few months: a quiet, perfectly chaste courtship that would have made any Victorian chaperone proud. Most days, they left their shift together and walked through the corridors of the ship at a leisurely pace to whatever they were planning on doing next. They ate together, worked out together, showered in the communal showers together, and spent most of their evenings in one or the other’s quarters while playing chess, drinking, or simply talking the hours away. They knew better already than to attempt touching, to tempt fate a third time to see if it could kill them this time, despite the unrelenting urge to _try_ , but it was Chekov who finally broke the seal on the pure nature of their relationship one evening, while lounging on one end of Sulu’s bed as Sulu was sprawled on the other end. They had discussed it before, mostly in a wistfully hypothetical manner because they had no way of knowing if it was even remotely possible for them one day. Sulu had spent hours wondering what Chekov’s skin really felt like—he knew only from their prior brushes, and those were so long before, so few, and so easily forgotten for his not paying attention at the time—wanting and longing for even the slightest of affectionate touches. Chekov had spent at least as long before finally speaking out.

“Hikaru,” he breathed, sitting up and leaning over the relaxed pilot. His fingers reached hesitantly for him and a faint electric buzz hummed over their skin, warning of what would happen if he came any closer than he already was. Sulu opened his mouth to warn him to stop, but Chekov shook his head. “I want to,” he insisted softly; carefully moving his hand a scant few inches from the contour of Sulu’s body, tracing the electric thrill down his arm and across his torso, lower… lower…

“Pavel,” Sulu whispered, but the faint hum over his skin was so much like touch, enough to ignite his nerves, but without the warmth and pressure and texture of Chekov’s hands. He swept his eyes over Chekov’s frame, where he was shaking in want that left him flushed across his cheeks and down under the cover of his uniform shirt. “I know you do,” he told him, wishing that he could sound calm enough to dampen the lust he had pretended wasn’t there for months, only now he knew he couldn’t, not with the half-touch of Chekov’s hand above his hardening cock, even with an inch of air and his uniform pants between the two. “ _I_ want to,” he admitted softly, held in place by desire and fear of what might happen if he dared to move.

But instead of giving into what would have assuredly been a foolish move in letting his hand descend to touch Sulu, Chekov retreated to his corner of the bed and pulled off his uniform shirt and tossing it casually off the side of the bed. Their boots were already in the corner, leaning against one another where they typically left them, because it was too formal to wear their shoes while together. With just as much dexterity, Chekov stripped off his pants and left them on a heap on the floor where they were quickly joined with Sulu’s own, followed by both of their boxers, then finally Sulu’s shirt.

Chekov giggled nervously, looking between their tangled clothes and their awkward, mirrored positions on opposite sides of Sulu’s bed. “We cannot do what would come next,” he told him in a tone that reflected both annoyance and amusement, but mostly just longing.

Sulu knew better than to feel disappointment, knew that he had _known_ it was impossible, but Chekov was _right there_ , and several months of wanting him without ever once being able to do so much as kiss him, without even being able to touch his back the way he had before they had gotten in this deep, when they were still friends… His cock gave a small jerk and Sulu groaned, wondering _how_ things had gotten this bad without either of them having to encourage it. A single look at the flush that ran from Chekov’s cheeks to the tip of his erection was more than enough to tell him that the feeling, whatever it was and however strong, was mutual. Without thinking any more about it, he took his cock into his hand and sighed, a shuddering, slow sound that left goosebumps on Chekov’s skin when he hesitantly echoed the motion.

For a few seconds after the first stroke—the first gasped curse a hoarse _fuck_ and a husky whisper of Russian that Sulu could only suppose was something similar—they were frozen, staring back at the other as if asking for permission, or acceptance, or _something_. And then Chekov moved first again, as if it was becoming something of a pattern for the Russian to take possession of the moment. Sulu didn’t know. There had never before been a time to find out, but soon his hand was moving in time with Chekov’s, his eyes flickering between the way his curls seemed to loosen when dampened with sweat, the tightening of his knuckles when his fist gripped his cock, then back up to meet his eyes again, never once breaking the rhythm Chekov had set for them.

“Pavel,” Sulu gasped, biting down on his lip to stop himself, because he was getting to be rather loud, and certainly anyone in the corridors would be able to hear them, would wonder how it was possible when they couldn’t even touch one another. He didn’t know if it was possible to say the _love_ word when he couldn’t even touch Chekov, could only watch him like he was watching something that should have been intimately private, only it was as if Chekov was putting on a show just the same way he was doing for him. “Pavel,” he repeated, more urgently this time, tugging Chekov’s hazy eyes back to his own.

“Hikaru,” Chekov whispered back and Sulu felt the telltale clench in his abdomen and stumbled over his own moan, fighting to stay conscious, never mind his eyes open and on Chekov, whose hand was tightening on his own cock and lifting his other hand toward Sulu. “Hikaru, I _love_ you.” The words were choked out between a mantra in Russian and Sulu couldn’t hold back any longer to wait for Chekov.

Though he didn’t have the strength for it, gasping breathlessly through his climax, Sulu followed the upheld hand with his own, imagining he could feel even the radiating heat from Chekov’s open palm. “I know,” he sighed out between a moan, then whispered again, again, until it gave way to a desperate echo of Chekov’s words to replace the chanting in Russian, gasped again and again long past the point when Chekov jerked into his hand and came with a low groan.

It was a long time, a few long moments of heavy breathing and euphoric afterglow, before they reluctantly dropped their hands and shared a despondent look, knowing there was so much more to this than they were able to do.

Sulu tried not to look too miserable, or sound too far out of his satiated mind, but he smiled deliriously at Chekov. “This is the point where we would have the obligatory post-coital cuddle…,” he offered and reached for a towel beside his bed, cleaned himself off, and tossed it toward Chekov, who laughed when he caught it and followed suit.

“Or I would get dressed and leave you alone?” He returned with a sardonic grin that was laced with far too much pleasure to be totally genuine.

“Hardly,” Sulu whispered and curled onto his side of the bed, holding out his hand toward Chekov again and waiting for the Russian to toss the towel aside and imitate the position, hands just far enough away and patient, staring at one another and slowly, slowly, falling asleep together. “I’d never be able to let you go,” he whispered finally, close enough to sleep that he barely knew if he was talking about a hypothetical cuddle or something so much more deeply profound.

And somewhere in the night, their hands brushed, retreated, and finally twined together.


End file.
